Burren
I have harvested enchantment
in fields of stone
Under the shrill protest
of small wild birds
Gathered shadows of dead heroes
into creels of bone
I have heard the laments
of childless women
crowd through dead forests
Traced the scrawl where bony fingers
picked out each patchwork rut and row
A bright mist shrouds
their faces. Gentle
the trickle of their tears
Remembering each flawed caress
nurturing cut flowers
Urging dormant seeds to grow
from ancient fissures
This poem was previously published in the Clare Champion newspaper.
Signed and framed copies of this poem printed on quality paper are available in any size. Calligraphed versions also available. Please email the address below for more details. Copyright Brendan O'Neill.
Not to be reproduced in any form without permission.
